Shadow
by A Winter Soldier
Summary: She had always been haunted by shadows, but when they cease to stay hidden, she begins to wonder if being haunted was better all along. Bucky Barnes/OC
1. Fracture

**A/N: You may be thinking that this story looks a bit familiar, and I'm here to tell you that you're absolutely right. This is a rewrite of my previous Bucky/OC story, entitled_ Smoke,_ which was unfortunately deleted several months ago. This version is dedicated to _thirteenviolets, _without whose invaluable advice the story would not have turned out the way that it does.**

**We don't get to meet the OC in this chapter, but I promise that she shows up very soon! Please leave a review letting me know what you think of it so far.**

**I've also written a Steve/OC story called _Elysium _that takes place in the same universe as this one. There is some minor overlapping between the two, but you certainly don't need to read both stories! Feel free to check it out if you'd like. :)**

**Disclaimer: ...Nope, I don't own Marvel****.**

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><p><em><strong>"In a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you."<strong>_

_**-The Chaos of Stars**_

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><p><span><em><strong>Shadow<strong>_

**Chapter One: ****Fracture**

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It had been exactly fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds since the Winter Soldier had left his mission lying on the bank of the Potomac River.

He was five miles away from the Triskelion, or what was left of it by now. His mind, which had always been so carefully controlled and precise—the target was the only thing that mattered—was now a jumbled mess of tangled thoughts and images, none of which he was able to separate from one another. The recurring two images were the man with the blond hair—his mission—no, not his mission. A friend? The Soldier didn't have friends, only targets and handlers—and the vivid picture of blood staining brilliantly white snow.

_Bucky. _That was his name. His mission—the man on the bridge—had called him Bucky. But he wasn't Bucky, at least not anymore. He was the Winter Soldier.

But was he? That was a title, not a name, given to him by his enemies. To Hydra, he was an asset. _The _asset. But that wasn't a name, either. He had no identity anymore. He was a ghost. A ghost who had absolutely no purpose anymore. No missions, no orders to carry out. He wouldn't be frozen anymore, lost in icy oblivion for decades at a time. The taste of freedom was utterly foreign; the Soldier didn't know what to do without instructions. It was ingrained into his very being—complete a mission and then get to the safe house as quickly as possible. That particular muscle memory had always remained, even after countless wipes and freezes.

But he didn't have to go there anymore. The fact that he was no one's weapon still hadn't sunk into his brain. His still-programmed mind had led him straight to one of Hydra's safe houses in Washington's west end. He knew it would be empty now—whatever agents had survived the attack would immediately flee the city. He wouldn't be their first priority. Still, he estimated he had just over a day before someone discovered him if he remained there. He was injured, and he needed to be taken care of before he could go any farther. His body was slowing down even now, and there was a point of sharp pain just behind his eyelids that might have been a headache. His programming was breaking down. He felt too..._human,_ almost vulnerable and open to attack. It bothered the Soldier. So he allowed his instincts to take over, and his racing thoughts mercifully slowed.

He was standing on the corner of a quiet suburban street, concealed in the shadow of a leafy oak tree. It was nearing noon, and the sun beat down onto his dark clothes, which were already beginning to dry after his time in the river. He was almost uncomfortably hot, but his mind quickly discarded the thought. He was not programmed for such distractions.

There were no targets on the street; no collateral damage. Only three of the ten visible driveways had cars—most residents must still be at work. Faint smoke from the Triskelion's collapse was beginning to taint the once-blue sky, but he paid it no attention. The houses were evidently newly built and were completely identical to one another: the windows and doors were all located in the same places and there were even matching plants in each of the gardens. The uniformity would be an asset to the Soldier; Hydra had picked a wise location for their safe house. There was nothing about it that distinguished it from the rest.

It had been exactly eighteen minutes and seven seconds since he had left his mission.

The Soldier loped around the side of the house and unlocked the gate easily. A tall hedge surrounded the backyard, effectively concealing it from the street, while a fenced-off pool sparkled next to a large stone patio. Hydra had taken great pains to make sure that it was as inconspicuous as possible. Even the interior looked like a normal house. The secrets only revealed themselves to those who had knowledge about them.

He retrieved the key from where it was hidden under one of the patio stones and unlocked the back door, one hand resting where his gun still hid. He was woefully unarmed, having lost most of his weapons during the attack, but he still had a loaded handgun and a knife, and of course he would use whatever was in his surroundings if he needed to. His weakness now was in his diminishing strength, and the headache that was getting stronger by the second. His injuries—a dislocated arm and several deep cuts—were trivial compared to what he usually received during a mission, or even what Hydra put him through during testing. He could repair himself easily—he just needed the tools and the time to do so.

When he let himself inside, he stood very quietly on the spot for exactly sixty seconds, listening for any strange noises. His enhanced hearing would allow him to sense if anyone was so much as breathing in the house, but this time there was nothing. Just to be sure, he made a careful round of the entire house, kicking aside furniture and tearing doors off their hinges. He did not care if Hydra discovered he had been here—he would be long gone before they arrived.

When the Soldier was satisfied that he was completely alone, he retreated to the bathroom to tend to his injuries. His arm was already beginning to heal, but he still wrapped it tightly in a splint. He treated the cuts on his face with ibuprofen and recalibrated his arm with only minor difficulty. The entire process took less than half an hour, but it wasn't his physical wounds that were the most dangerous to him. He had never been away from his handlers for so long, and the entire process had a surreal quality. In fact, the Soldier even began to wonder if he was actually in cryostasis, and Hydra was testing him to see how he would act in the real world if he were to be separated from them.

But he couldn't have made up the man on the bridge. _I'm with you until the end of the line. _

His mission thought that he was Bucky, but the Soldier knew he wasn't Bucky, even if he had once been. The blond man would always be looking for a ghost, not _him. _He didn't want anyone else telling him what to do, telling him _who he was._

He reached out and slammed his fist through the mirror, splintering his reflection into a thousand fractured pieces. Bits of glass rained down onto the sink and counter, falling to the floor like crystal raindrops. He stood staring down at his fractured self, and then roughly kicked the glass into a corner, breathing heavily with his fists clenched. The emotions were beginning to overwhelm him; he had no experience in dealing with them. He almost wished for the numbness that orders brought him. He was unused to emotions, unused to anything that made him human. And now he was terrifyingly human, completely directionless. He was without a purpose. Hydra had not created the perfect soldier. He was neither man nor weapon, but something between them, with all the weaknesses of both.

He had to get as far away from the city as possible. That was his main priority. Hydra would be looking for him. Well, _he_ would track them down first. Kill them all and make them suffer for what they had done to him. If he couldn't reclaim his own identity, then he would steal the identities of those who had taken his from him. It would be his new mission. This the Soldier would be able to understand. And then maybe after all that was over…he would look for the captain. Captain America. If the redheaded woman or the man with wings got in his way, he would have no choice but to kill them. He was sure the captain wouldn't try to kill him, but if his friends did…

He turned away from the broken mirror and left the bathroom, concealing his weapons as he did. He then searched the house from top to bottom for items that would be useful to him. There was a pile of clothes in one of the bedroom closets; he quickly changed into them, knowing they would be less conspicuous to blend in with the civilians. He took all of the money he could find (which only totaled up to five hundred dollars) and since there was a strange gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, he tried eating some food. He didn't know when he had last done so—generally his nutrients were given to him intravenously—and the sensation of chewing and swallowing was foreign to him. It proved to be a poor idea when he vomited it up not a minute later; his body didn't know how to digest the food.

Just before he left the house, he rooted through the files that were stored in the attic behind a dozen easily dismantled alarms; many of them were useless, just accounts of things that were occurring within S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings. However, he did find a manila envelope titled _Winter Soldier Project _and took it right away. He needed to retreat to somewhere safe before he stopped for any length of time.

Two hours had passed by the time he left the safe house and emerged back out onto the street, dressed in faded jeans and a dark green jacket with a matching cap that covered the top half of his face when he ducked his head. His cybernetic arm was covered by the jacket's long sleeves, and although he was unshaven and there were black circles under his eyes, he could pass for a normal man again, albeit a very scruffy one. On his way to the motel he had spotted on the way to the safe house, he was standing on a street corner when a gray-haired businessman walked by and flicked him a quarter. The Soldier glared at his retreating back, fighting the desire to retaliate, but simply clenched his jaw and turned his head away. Hydra hadn't cared about collateral damage, but they had instilled in him to keep a low profile unless he absolutely had to. He didn't want to draw any attention to himself.

The motel was on the outskirts of a seedy neighborhood, filled with vagrants and drug dealers. Nobody would be able to look him up here, and the owner didn't care who stayed there. The Soldier simply walked into the lobby with once-red carpets that reeked of age and stale cigarettes and gave him one of the bills he had stolen, enough to last him a week in if he needed to and enough that the owner would leave him alone.

After he had thoroughly examined his room, since he couldn't be too careful that he wasn't being watched or tracked, he carefully laid out his weapons on the bedside table within easy reach. He wasn't worried about being discovered anymore and felt slightly more at ease; he was sure the false trail he had left would be enough to deter any Hydra agents for a while—the ones who weren't running away, of course.

He picked up the file on the Winter Soldier and opened it, which contained only two pieces of paper. One was a picture of him lying unconscious on an operating table, naked and with his eyes closed. _The Winter Soldier s__hortly before awakening in March 2014,_ the file read. The Soldier instantly recognized Alexander Pierce's writing.

Something like nausea shot through his stomach—nausea mixed with a boiling rage. He turned his attention to the second paper. There were three entries in it, all still written by Pierce.

_-Removed the asset from cryostasis; all vital signs are present. His last mission was completed five years ago. Briefed him on the necessary removal of Nicholas Fury, and the mission was successful._

_-The asset has been restless and attempted to attack one of the guards. A new experimental drug was ordered. It is generally used on large, aggressive animals, but I have been assured that it will calm him. He will be sent out on a new mission tomorrow to eliminate Captain America._

_-He failed his first mission on account of his memories beginning to return and must be wiped as soon as possible. Once Project Insight is complete, Hydra will no longer require him._

The Soldier stared at the paper for a long moment. He was not supposed to have lived through the helicarrier mission. If he had carried out his orders, he would have met death. The rage steadily building inside him boiled up and spilled over, but there were no mirrors to break this time. He longed for a fireplace in which to burn the evidence. More than that, he wished to burn all of Hydra to the ground.

He was preparing to stand when a wave of dizziness suddenly overcame him, and he could no longer balance properly. He must be malfunctioning—he had never been away from his handlers for so long. By his calculations, he had not slept in over thirty hours. He required sleep, but he did not want to place himself in such a weakened state, where he would be completely vulnerable. The loss of consciousness made him think of being placed on the ice, and the numbing pain that enclosed his whole body before he froze completely. Sometimes they didn't perform the procedure properly, and he was left conscious in the cold for hours on end. He was always cold, even when he was awake. Sleeping meant letting down his guard.

He fought to keep his eyes open, but it was a foreign sensation to him. He was malfunctioning. He didn't think he had ever been awake for longer than this. He had to fight it—he had to—

But his body, even enhanced as it was with the serum, had been pushed far past its breaking point. Instinct took over, and he finally slept.

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><p><em>He was leaning over the railing of a ship staring out to sea. The water swirled and solidified into hard ground, and he fell to his knees and retched into the dirt. "It will do you no good to fight it, Sergeant," a heavily accented voice said, and he slowly raised his head and looked up at a short figure wearing a white laboratory coat, and he closed his eyes so he would not have to see him as a dull pain began in his left arm. When his vision returned, he was lying flat on his back strapped to a hard table and staring up at the dirt-streaked face of a man <em>_with eyes like the turbulent ocean. "I thought you were smaller," he said. The man grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him up, but as soon as he blinked he was suddenly in a brightly-lit room with his arms wrapped around a short, pretty girl who beamed widely up at him as they whirled around a dance floor. Her eyes locked and focused on something over his shoulder, and she suddenly shrank away from him, her eyes widening in fear. The lights in the ballroom flickered and died, plunging everything into darkness, and he was standing in a much smaller bedroom with the silver metal of his arm the only thing visible in the all-consuming darkness. He was pointing a gun at a man and a woman, his grip as steady as ever, who were holding hands but who both looked unafraid._ "уходи,"_ he ordered, but he was not speaking to his targets. _

_"Wipe him and start over," a calm voice said from behind him, and his senses then disappeared completely except for an all-consuming_ _agony._

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><p>The first thing the Soldier did when he awoke was to lean over the side of the bed and retch yet again, completely disoriented. He felt even dizzier than he had before he had slept. His burning rage had given way to a numbing sort of apathy that was even more destructive in its own way.<p>

The sun was streaming in at the wrong angle through the curtains and his body was unusually stiff, as if he had recently been taken out of cryostasis. The only difference was that Hydra had always given him drugs to calm him before they awakened him to make him compliant, and that was no longer the case. He had no idea how long he had slept, but he would not let such a thing happen again if he would be forced through unwanted dreams. He had to ignore his body's wishes, no matter how necessary they were. If there was one thing Hydra had taught him, it was how to ignore injury to himself.

Gritting his teeth, the Soldier pulled himself up into a sitting position and tried to ignore the sick feeling the dream left him with, lacing up his boots and collecting his weapons one by one. There had to be some way he could prevent himself from sleeping again, or at the very least prevent it from happening for a very long time. He almost preferred the ice; at least then he did not dream.

After he had gathered up his belongings, he strode outside into the parking lot, his sharp gaze immediately taking in his surroundings. The area was remarkably bare, nondescript office buildings crowding alongside the busy street, with the only exception being a small café almost directly across from the motel.

_Coffee._ He knew, without knowing how he did, that it would prove to be an effective stimulant. It would prevent him from sleeping until he could find an alternative solution to rest.

And then he would leave Washington.


	2. Aftermath

**Chapter Two: Aftermath**

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Five miles and several neighborhoods away, a young woman woke with a gasp and a strangled cry, bolting upright in bed, her eyes frantically searching the room for a danger that wasn't there. When she realized that it had been just a dream—not _that _goddamn dream again; she thought she had been getting over that—she groaned and ran a hand through her tangle of hair, letting herself fall back onto the pillows. Her heart was still pounding as hard as if she had just sprinted a marathon and her skin was soaked with sweat. She pulled the blanket up over her head and screamed in frustration, closing her eyes as if to rid herself of the images that still played behind them like a movie that just wouldn't stop.

At the edge of her bed, a golden retriever looked up worriedly, startled by the sudden noise. When there was no movement from his owner, he dragged himself to his feet and bounded across the bed, his tongue finding its way to her forehead while his tail wagged cheerfully. Across the room, a tabby cat looked up distastefully from its perch on the top of the bookshelf.

"Stop it, Leo," Talia Hawthorne groaned, trying and failing to push the dog away from her. The sky was thick with clouds, the sun barely managing to shine dully through the fog, but there were several hopeful patches of blue sky scattered here and there. Still, the light was so bright that she had to squint against it. She had gone to bed well before midnight, but as usual she didn't feel like she'd had even an hour of sleep. She didn't need to look in the mirror to know that the circles under her eyes were black and etched so deeply into her skin that she always looked as if she had permanent bruises, or that her hair looked like a dozen rats had decided it would a perfect place to nest.

After shoving Napoleon—his full name was too much of a mouthful this early in the morning—off of her, she rolled out of bed with a yawn and staggered to the door, barely hearing the light steps of Socrates the cat (she was forever having to explain to people that she hadn't actually named them) behind her. Both animals shot out of the room the second she opened the door, eager to get to their breakfasts. Talia idly wished that she was as eager and energetic in the mornings as they were, or at least that she didn't need a shower and a coffee to feel like a human being again.

The kitchen was untouched from the way she had left it the previous night—dirty dishes piled up in the sink, dog and cat food hastily shoved into a corner, a rag from where she had mopped up Leo's slobber hanging over the counter—but the light on the answering machine was flashing. As she poured food into her pets' bowls, she played the message. The annoyingly cheerful voice of her sister filled the kitchen.

"_Hi, Lia! I guess you're still asleep—I know how much you hate waking up early. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Reagan and I are still coming to visit today. After, um, what happened yesterday, I considered canceling the trip, but the news said that it didn't happen right in the city…anyway, I just wanted to talk to you about that, and it would break Reagan's heart if he didn't get to see the Captain America exhibit, and I figured what better time to see it than now, right? I think admission is free. But yeah, our flight gets in at two and you promised to pick us up from the airport. You're still doing that, right? Call me back if you can't. It's still the same number and every—"_

Here the machine cut off, mercifully ending Phoebe's long-winded speech. Talia sighed and threw the bags of food onto the counter, worrying her bottom lip as she stared at the phone as if it was a monster about to devour her. She _did _want to see her sister again—and of course her nephew—but that would mean bringing up a slew of things she would rather leave buried, like why she was still an insomniac after years of doctors and sleep clinics and pills, and why she was still working a minimum-wage job at a nearby café instead of pursuing a career.

Talia pulled her dark hair back into a tight ponytail as if hoping the motion would somehow scatter her thoughts, and glanced over at the clock; it was just after eight-thirty. She had enough time to take a shower, have breakfast, and tidy up the house before her shift for the day started. After the disaster the day before, she was surprised her aunt and uncle, who were away on a cruise in the Caribbean, hadn't called to make sure she was all right.

After pouring herself a bowl of cereal and orange juice, she retreated to the couch to watch television while Leo curled up at her feet. Unfortunately, the only programs that were on were breakfast talk shows, and they were all playing the same scenes of destruction over and over.

The Triskelion, once a grand, majestic concrete tower, was now reduced to rubble, one side ripped cleanly away and revealing the building's skeleton. The gigantic outlines of three massive helicarriers were visible in the water. A patch of surrounding forest had been completely destroyed, and the area didn't look dissimilar to the pictures Talia had seen of the Battle of New York. She glimpsed a flash of something that looked metallic moving quickly amongst the trees.

The reveal that the world's greatest intelligence agency had been infiltrated by a neo-Nazi organization, the host was explaining, was perhaps the country's greatest scandal since Watergate. It turned out that Hydra, the rogue Nazi science division, had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. without the organization's knowledge, and had worked secretly alongside them for decades. Hydra had been planning to launch a helicarrier attack on millions of people around the world, killing everyone they thought was a possible threat. Captain America had thwarted them at the last minute and had fought a Soviet assassin known only as the Winter Soldier, destroying the Triskelion in the process. All of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets had been leaked onto the Internet, and the country was in a state of total chaos. Talia felt even sicker than she had during the Battle of New York two years ago: perhaps because this was taking place right in Washington.

She had been baffled when she'd first heard the news; it was no secret that S.H.I.E.L.D., the world's foremost intelligence agency and the creator of the superheroes known as the Avengers, had its base on Theodore Roosevelt Island, but it was staffed with even more security than the White House. From what little information Talia had gleaned about it throughout her life, S.H.I.E.L.D. should be the ones protecting people, not the other way around.

Now they were speaking about the current condition of Steve Rogers; Talia looked back at the TV, where a picture of the handsome, blond Avenger was displayed, along with the news that he was in critical condition at the hospital but was expected to make a full recovery. Talia had never met him herself, but she knew how much it would mean to her grandfather, who had been a Second World War veteran, to know Steve Rogers had been unfrozen. But he had died years ago…

And then the image changed, revealing something much more unsettling: Talia hadn't realized she had nearly pushed Leo off the couch; he raised his head sleepily before apparently deciding it wasn't an issue and hung his head back over the side. But Talia wasn't looking at him.

The picture had switched to a man dressed entirely in black, his heavily padded clothing not hiding the fact that his left arm appeared to be made entirely of metal. He had long dark hair that nearly reached his shoulders, and a hard, icy stare. His eyes were boring right into the camera; Talia was vaguely surprised that it hadn't shattered from the sheer force of his glare. Curiously, there was absolutely nothing behind his eyes but darkness, as if there was no real human living behind them. It unnerved her.

On screen, the reporter was explaining that the picture had been taken by one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files that had been released publicly. This, then, was the Winter Soldier: he was a Hydra assassin and the one who had fought with Captain America. Apparently, he had escaped detection after the attack, and all citizens of Washington and the surrounding areas were urged to be on alert for him, calling the police at once if he was spotted.

Without taking her eyes off the television, Talia groped for the remote and turned it off, staring at the black screen for a long moment. She dropped her spoon and pushed the bowl away from her, her appetite gone. Not only was an armed and dangerous man roaming the streets of Washington, he was connected to Hydra and bore far too much resemblance to the shadows that stalked her dreams every night.

_Get a grip, _she told herself. _It's a city of two and a half million people. What are the chances you're going to run into him? He's probably long gone by now. And his face is being broadcast on every screen across the country. They'll find him within a day._

"I hope so," Talia said out loud, unconcerned about the fact that she was talking to herself. Leo barked in response.

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><p>Later that morning, she slouched over the counter, her chin propped on her palm and her eyes half-closed. She ought to be putting the pastries into the display, but instead she was staring dumbly at the opposite wall, a rack of croissants sitting forgotten beside her.<p>

"The hell are you doing, Hawthorne?" a voice directly behind her hissed, and she was treated to a hard jab in the ribs. She yelped and jumped to her feet, spilling the rack of croissants onto the counter in the process. Her co-worker, a pretty blonde woman named Ashley, was scowling angrily at her, her perfectly tweezed eyebrows arched in disapproval. "Are you sleeping?"

"Um, yeah," Talia admitted, hastily drawing the pastries back onto the rack and shoving them unceremoniously into the display. "I guess I didn't get enough sleep. Sorry."

It was no secret around the café that Ashley was a shoo-in for their next manager, and Talia didn't want to look incompetent in front of her. When this excuse failed to quell her annoyance, Talia tried again: "I was worrying about…what happened yesterday," she said. It was half-true, at least. But she slept poorly _every _night, regardless of what happened during the day.

At least this time Ashley's hard expression relaxed just a bit. "So am I," she confessed. "It's fuckin' crazy is what it is. Still, that's no excuse to slack off, especially in the morning. You understand?"

Feeling a bit like a child who had been scolded by the preschool teacher during nap time, Talia nodded. Ashley ordered around all of the café's employees as if she was already in charge. Still, Talia wished the other woman hadn't been quite so vocal about it. "I'll take the cash," she quickly said, hoping it would mollify her. The café wasn't crowded like it usually was, but there was a steady stream of customers coming in and out. Even after recent events, it appeared to be business as usual in the city.

"Go ahead," Ashley said briskly. "That's what I was going to tell you anyway. You're already keeping a customer waiting." She nodded at the empty cash register, where Talia could see the shadow of someone standing at the counter.

Cursing under her breath, she immediately dashed over to the register, trying and failing to adjust her apron as she did. "Good morning," she said, plastering the most genuine smile she could onto her face, although she was definitely _not _having a good morning and by the looks of the customer, he was not either. "What can I get for you?"

He did not speak for a very long time, and Talia took the opportunity to give him a once-over; he didn't look like their usual customer. The newcomer was a well-built, scruffy-looking man who appeared in desperate need of a shave. He had gray eyes, she saw, but they were curiously blank. Talia immediately recognized the telltale look of someone who badly needed sleep. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Talia had no idea where from. She'd probably served him before—she rarely remembered faces. Just as she was about to repeat her question, he said, "Coffee."

Talia waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't, she asked, "How do you like your coffee, sir?"

Again he took an unusually long time to answer. "Black," he finally said.

Talia blinked. "Sure. That'll be one dollar and fifty cents." Before she had finished speaking, he'd tossed the exact change onto the counter. Talia gathered it up, watching him warily; his gaze was sharp and trained on her, but she had the feeling he knew exactly what was going on around him. It was policy to ask the customers if they wanted a food item as well, but not wanting another monosyllabic answer, Talia kept her mouth shut.

Thankfully, Ashley had already made his coffee, and promptly shoved it into Talia's hand. Not expecting the scorching heat of the cup so soon, she slid it across the counter with more force than was absolutely necessary. It spun out of control, and before Talia had the time to gasp and realize she was about to spill coffee all over the customer, his arm shot out, faster than she would have expected, and grabbed the cup, all without spilling a drop.

"Thank you," she stuttered. "God, how did you do that?"

"He must have known that you would slip up," Ashley said, more than a little bit rudely. "Enjoy your coffee, sir." She flashed a winning smile at the customer, who was still looking at Talia. He inclined his head in what could have been a nod of acknowledgement—or perhaps he was just looking down at his coffee—before walking away without another word. Talia watched him leave, somewhat curious despite herself. The café was close to several seedy neighborhoods, so strange customers weren't exactly rare, but they usually never showed up this early in the day. The man was an anomaly.

And then she realized she had spent the better part of a minute thinking about this stranger. She _needed _a life.

"I'll take over cash now. Go see if any customers want refills," Ashley ordered. Talia didn't have the strength to argue with her, so she dutifully grabbed the coffeepot and made the rounds of the café, being very careful not to spill any cups. It was monotonous, tedious work, and once again she found herself longing for the day that she would be able to find a _real _job. It was kind enough of her aunt and uncle to still let her live in their house while she struggled to make it in Washington despite growing up there, but she was no closer to landing a career than she had been on the day she graduated from Culver University with a degree in photojournalism five years beforehand. She knew Phoebe wanted her to move to Indiana so she could help her take care of Reagan, and Talia was sure that was one of the reasons for her sister's visit. But she wasn't going back there without a fight.

She was so lost in thinking of excuses to stay in D.C. that she barely realized the strange man was still in the café. He had taken a table in the far corner, his back against the wall. His head was bent, but as she passed his table she saw the glimmer of his eyes flicker upwards. She wondered if he was an ex-soldier; his posture and stance were very reminiscent of one, as was his alert gaze. He almost reminded her of her grandfather, ready to jump into battle at any moment.

She was about to ask him if he wanted more coffee when Ashley hurried past her again, this time carrying a tray laden with bagels. "Can you take over the two o'clock shift?" she asked. "Apparently someone bowed out, and I can't take over because my boyfriend lives in Baltimore and I'm driving up to visit him this weekend. I'd like to get an early start there."

"Actually, I was the one who bowed out," Talia admitted, placing the coffeepot on the table and moving back around the counter so she would have an escape route if Ashley contemplated handcuffing her to a table and forcing her to stay at work, which was now seeming more and more likely. "My sister and nephew are flying in from Indiana, and I promised to pick them up from the airport."

Ashley looked displeased; Talia fought to keep the polite smile on her face. "I'll take an extra shift next week to make up for it," she lied; she would think up an excuse later. She glanced at the clock out of the corner of her eye; the second hand appeared to be moving backwards. Only four more hours until she could leave.

"Wait a second," her co-worker interrupted just as Talia was preparing to take over as cashier again so she could be spared any more uncomfortable conversations. "They're coming here _today? _After what happened?"

Talia shrugged. "They had planned the trip weeks in advance. I mean, I guess that D.C. is pretty safe; no civilians were killed during the attack and there aren't any travel restrictions or anything. Besides, my nephew—he's four—really wants to see the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian. Apparently admission is free."

"Apparently?" Ashley sounded amused. "You mean you haven't been to it yet?"

Now Talia really wished another customer would come into the café so she could excuse herself to serve them. "No. My cousin mentioned something about it once, but I guess I just never got the chance. I've heard it's really good, though." Hoping Ashley would take it as a sign that the conversation was over, she picked up the coffeepot and turned back to the mysterious man's table, a question already halfway out of her mouth before she stopped midsentence, looking blankly around the café.

He was gone.


	3. Waking Nightmare

**Chapter Three: Waking Nightmare**

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"You're in love, aren't you?"

Talia's grip tightened on the steering wheel, and she deliberately kept her gaze on the road so she wouldn't have to look at her sister's smirking face. On the other side of the electric fence, an airplane was lifting off the runway, hurtling over the highway so loudly that the sound of its roaring engines briefly drowned out the radio. Talia wished she could magically teleport herself onto the plane so she could escape Phoebe's relentless questions.

"No," Talia said firmly. "I am not in love, nor do I know anyone who would be remotely interested in dating me."

They weren't even out of the airport property and already she was at her wit's end. After Phoebe and Reagan's flight had been delayed due to fog in Indianapolis, Talia had waited in the terminal for an hour, on edge for reasons she couldn't quite explain, and once they had finally arrived she had been subjected to Phoebe's merciless questioning about every aspect of her existence, from her work life to her (nonexistent) love life.

In the backseat, Reagan was absorbed in a handheld video game, tinny explosions punctuating the air every few seconds. It only served to remind Talia of what had happened the previous day, and she bit down hard on her lower lip, hoping to quell her anxiety. All she wanted to do was to go about her business and live a normal, mundane life without having to worry about superheroes or alien invasions or Hydra assassins or a major building in her city blowing up. Was that really too much to ask? Maybe she should go back to Indiana after all. The most exciting thing that happened there were car races, and those were on closed circuits.

"Really?" Phoebe asked slyly. "What about your coworker? The one who moved away?"

Talia sighed. "That ended _because _he moved away."

"The bartender?"

"He never called me back."

"The doctor?"

"I learned after the first date that he was already married. You're running out of people to ask about, Phoebs. I'm not exactly popular."

But her sister was undeterred. "The artist?"

"That was _Ellie,_ not me! Besides, I don't think they're together anymore."

"Oh." Phoebe paused. "She's our cousin; that's close enough. Anyway, come _on, _Lia. You're closer to thirty than you are to twenty. It's time to think about settling down."

"Well, we can't all get pregnant in college," Talia said nastily, momentarily forgetting that Reagan was within earshot. A look of hurt briefly flashed across Phoebe's face, and Talia immediately regretted her words. A month before her college graduation, Phoebe had given birth to Reagan, shocking Talia and the rest of their extended family, who had known nothing about the matter. The identity of Reagan's father was still unknown to Talia, no matter how many leveled questions she threw at her sister. Phoebe had moved back to the girls' hometown in Indiana to raise Reagan in a safer environment, though Talia knew their aunt and uncle would have been more than happy to allow Phoebe to continue living in their house. But as it was, Phoebe had declined that offer, and now Talia was left living primarily alone in Washington while her aunt and uncle took advantage of their retirement to travel. It wasn't a particularly terrible existence, but Leo and Socks weren't particularly verbose companions, either.

"Phoebe, I'm sorry," Talia said after a long silence fraught with tension. Luckily, Reagan was still absorbed in his game. "I didn't mean it like that—"

"No, Lia, you're right," Phoebe sighed, playing with the lock on her door and avoiding Talia's gaze. "I shouldn't have been so nosy."

There was another awkward silence, broken only by Reagan punching his fist in the air and yelling "Yes!" as he apparently won a battle against some sort of prehistoric dinosaur creature, judging by the game's sound effects. They were well into the city limits now, and Talia was hit by a wall of traffic that had slowed down to gawk at the destroyed Triskelion, which was still a smoking mound of ashes in the distance. Several out-of-state news crews were eagerly reporting any new developments, and tourists had climbed out of their taxis to gape at the sight, holding up phones and cameras to the sky.

"Damn," Talia muttered under her breath, impatiently drumming her fingers on the steering wheel after she had been stopped for five minutes behind a young family who were happily snapping pictures of themselves against the backdrop, no doubt to be put into photo albums to be cherished later. "I should have taken the other exit."

Phoebe was visibly agitated, crossing and uncrossing her legs as if she was considering jumping out of the car. "Are Aunt Myra and Uncle Charlie home?" she asked, reaching into her purse and pulling out a tube of lipstick. Her hand shook as she applied it.

"No," said Talia. "They're still in Saint Lucia." She paused, watching her sister out of the corner of her eye. Phoebe was only two years her junior, but there were times—like now—when she seemed like a teenager again. "Phoebs?" she asked quietly, using a rare childhood nickname. "What is it?"

Phoebe took her time carefully replacing the lid on her lipstick and putting it back in her purse before replying, "It's about Mom and Dad."

Talia's hands jerked on the wheel; luckily they hadn't been moving or she would have driven right into the oncoming lane. Certain topics—like Reagan's father and their own parents—weren't brought up without prior warning. And now both of them had been breached within the space of a single conversation. "What about them?" Talia asked slowly.

Phoebe continued to fiddle with the clasp on her purse. "There's something I have to tell you," she continued in a low voice. "I—I've known about it for years. I'm such an idiot. I should have told you the moment I found out—"

Talia's palms were beginning to sweat, and an uncomfortable heat was spreading across her body. "Phoebe, just spit it out!" she hissed.

"They weren't killed by an armed robber," said Phoebe very quickly, as if she was determined to get the words out as fast as possible.

Again, it was a good thing that Talia wasn't currently driving, because suddenly she wasn't sitting in the middle of a traffic jam at all anymore, but crouching in the middle of a dark room, hiding behind a chair and clutching her teddy bear as tightly as she could to her chest while she listened to her parents' voices begging for their lives. "It was a burglary," she said through her gritted teeth. "I only survived because the robber didn't know I was there."

"Lia, this happened twenty-two years ago. You were five. That wasn't how it happened." Phoebe's voice was suddenly patient, calm, as if she were teaching Reagan not to play with his food.

"How the hell do _you_ know what happened, then?" Talia demanded, suddenly, irrationally angry. "The police investigated it. I was there when they—I heard the gun. I still have nightmares—"

"Well, your memory is hardly reliable, is it?" exclaimed Phoebe. "Lia, please listen to me. I once knew someone from S.H.I.E.L.D., and they told me that—"

"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Reagan asked eagerly, tossing his game aside and leaning forward. "Like Captain America's shield? When are we gonna go to the museum, Mommy?"

His interruption had come at the worst possible time; Phoebe leaned back in her chair and slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. _"Now_ you decide to listen to me," she groaned. "Look, we'll go tomorrow morning, all right?"

Reagan's bottom lip began to tremble dangerously. "But I wanna go _now!"_ he cried.

Sensing that a full-scale temper tantrum was about to erupt, Talia made a split-second decision. "Actually, we might as well go to the Smithsonian now," she said, giving Phoebe a look that clearly informed her they would be continuing their conversation later. "We're going to be stuck in this traffic until midnight if we stay here any longer."

Reagan's face, barely out of toddlerhood, lit up as if Talia had announced they were going to Disney World. "You're the best, Auntie Lia!" he said, reaching forward to hug her neck tightly. "Can we go to the gift shop too?"

Talia glanced over at Phoebe, who gave a grudging nod. "A trip to the Smithsonian wouldn't be complete without one," she said, smiling at her nephew in the rearview mirror. She did, however, mourn the loss of the conversation: she was desperate to know what information Phoebe supposedly had about their parents, and resolved to ask her again as soon as she had the chance.

* * *

><p>Despite Captain America's very public fallout from S.H.I.E.L.D. days before, the Smithsonian exhibit was still impossibly crowded. Talia noticed the majority of visitors were grandparents with small children. In her estimation, most of the children looked too young to even know who Captain America was, and most of the grandparents looked too old to even <em>remember <em>who he was. Talia wondered how many of Steve Rogers's contemporaries were still alive and marveling over how one of their generation was running around saving the world and looking not a day over twenty-five. Then again, she reasoned, it was certainly no stranger than to marvel over the fact that he had been frozen in the Atlantic for nearly seventy years and somehow managed to survive _that._

"Auntie Lia, look," Reagan insisted, tugging on her hand and pointing at a display of Rogers's military uniforms in the corner. "His shield is right there!"

Talia smiled down at him, gently amused. Reagan was fully decked out in his promised costume from the gift shop, complete with a star-spangled replica of Captain America's costume and a miniature plastic shield. "Come see!" he commanded, and Talia allowed herself to be pulled along to the display. Phoebe was standing by a mural of someone called Bucky Barnes, absorbed in her phone. She had mysteriously melted away as soon as they had gotten to the museum, claiming that Reagan needed some quality time with Talia. Phoebe hadn't been acting like her usual self at all, and it was beginning to worry Talia. Was she trying to guilt-trip her into moving to Indiana? Talia hoped not.

Reagan wasn't quite tall enough to see properly over the wooden barrier that enclosed the exhibit, and so Talia had to pick him up in order for him to get a better look. In her mind, he was still a baby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket that the girls' cousin Ellie had knitted for him, and she staggered back slightly when she realized how heavy he was in reality. He was already nearly as tall as her waist, and she hoped she didn't look too incompetent as he stretched out eagerly, comparing his toy shield to the real one. If she accidentally dropped him into the exhibit, she would never hear the end of it from Phoebe. As it was, two security guards clad from head to toe in black had materialized beside the display. Talia smiled awkwardly at them, hoping to convey the message that she wasn't about to drop Reagan, but their stoic faces didn't so much as twitch in response.

"Auntie Lia, I want a picture with the shield!" Reagan said, now squirming unhappily in her arms.

"Sure, but I don't have a camera," replied Talia. "Go ask your mom, okay?" She gratefully put Reagan down, and he dashed over to Phoebe, tugging impatiently on the hem of her shirt. Talia followed more slowly, glancing at the guards out of the corner of her eye as she passed them. They didn't even make eye contact with her.

When she reached Phoebe, who was flipping through the breaking news on her phone—since when had she ever paid attention to the news?—Reagan was begging his mother for a picture. Phoebe reluctantly agreed, giving Talia a tired grin before following Reagan over to the other display.

While she waited for them to return, Talia glanced down at her watch. It was nearing dinnertime, and hopefully rush hour would have calmed down by now. She still had to make the guest rooms presentable and take Leo for a walk before supper…_Maybe we'll just go to a restaurant, _Talia thought. _It won't be easier on my wallet, but it'll be easier on me. _

The blinding flash of a camera close by startled her into awareness again, and she automatically glanced up, blinking furiously and trying to clear her vision. A tour group had surrounded the Bucky Barnes exhibit, a gang of teenagers chattering excitedly. The only adults in sight were Talia and a ragged-looking man wearing a baseball cap with his hands stuffed in a dark green jacket. He was staring up at the display as though transfixed, his sallow face reflected in the flash from another camera. Talia was surprised when recognition swept through her: he was the peculiar man from the café that morning, the one who had disappeared so abruptly. What on earth was he doing here?

As if he had read Talia's mind, his head moved to the left very slightly, and they briefly made eye contact. Talia wasn't sure if she should make some sort of sign that she recognized him, but before she could even smile, he turned away and disappeared into the crowd like he was nothing more than a ghost. It wasn't often that she saw a customer outside of work, but the majority of them would at least strike up a friendly conversation with her. She supposed she shouldn't take his vanishing episodes too personally, but after Ashley had snidely suggested the reason he'd left the café so quickly was because of her clumsiness, Talia couldn't completely banish the thought.

She took a step back from the exhibit and looked around for Phoebe and Reagan. They were still on the other side of the room, waiting for the crowd to disperse so the pictures would be clear. The two black-clothed guards were gone from their post in front of the emergency exit. Bored, Talia idly glanced around the exhibit for anything interesting—

—And was met with something hard and metallic pressing on her lower back. She froze, slowly turning around to see what was behind her, and came face-to-face with the shorter security guard. His dark eyes bore into hers with an astonishing ferocity. Up close, Talia could see that he was not, in fact, wearing the distinctive uniform of the Smithsonian staff—meaning he was an outsider.

An outsider with a gun held against her.

"Say anything, and this entire place goes up in flames," he said in a low, menacing snarl. Talia was too shocked to even shudder away from him. "Do you understand?"

She nodded mechanically, although she couldn't have screamed even if she was planning on it. Her heart had dropped right down into her stomach and was pounding so fiercely it was almost painful. If they weren't security guards, who were they? Armed robbers? Policemen who had suddenly snapped? Had they singles her out because she was alone? What did they want from her? Talia's brain was working furiously. The moment couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but to her it felt like time had slowed to a crawl. Nobody was looking in her direction, and even if they were, they wouldn't have seen the gun.

"Now," the man breathed in her ear. "Go to your sister and tell her that you're leaving early. Remember, one wrong move and everyone here is dead."

Talia was now desperately praying that she was trapped in another nightmare and she would wake up any minute. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered how the man knew Phoebe was her sister, but it didn't quite register as important enough for her to dwell on it. Numbly, she stumbled forward on shaking legs, every part of her body trembling madly. She could feel the gun still trained on her with every step she took. Maybe if she just did as she was told, she would be safe. Maybe the men were just looking to cause a scene and were expecting her to make an escape. Maybe the gun wasn't actually real—

Phoebe turned when she saw Talia approach, her features morphing into confusion when she presumably saw the look on her face. "Lia, what is it?" she asked. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Talia bit back a choked sob—she was more terrified than she had ever been in her life, and she was surrounded by possible saviors. "I forgot something at work," she said mutely, not even trying to sound convincing. "If I'm not back before you're ready to leave, take a cab to the house. It shouldn't be more than ten dollars. I'll pay you back."

"It must have been important, huh?" Phoebe asked with a sly grin. When Talia didn't respond, a look of concern flashed across her face. "Lia, what is it—"

"Mommy, hurry up!" Reagan said, cutting off Phoebe's question and wedging himself between both women. Talia fought the urge to step protectively in front of him.

Phoebe looked down, her attention diverted, and Talia caught sight of the other guard standing by the doors of the small auditorium, which she'd read was used to play short films about Captain America's life every half hour. Even if she had somehow managed to get out of the gun's range, she would have to pass the other guard to escape. She was completely trapped.

Again she felt the cold metal against her back; the first guard must have silently followed her. Phoebe was just feet away—all she had to do was reach out and touch her—but what could her sister possibly do? Not only would Talia be risking her own life, she would be risking the lives of Phoebe, Reagan, and countless other visitors.

"Go into the auditorium," her captor ordered, pushing her forward. Stumbling slightly, Talia did as she was told, what little hope she had previously harbored slowly draining out of her. She was being herded like a pig to the slaughterhouse. The ringing in her ears was growing louder the closer she got to the door, until the rush of blood in her ears was all that she could hear.

The second guard stepped back as she approached and held open the door for her, a mocking smile on his face. "Ladies first," he told her, and something about his tone made Talia think that, perhaps, there were worse things that could happen to her than being shot.

The auditorium was pitch-black, not even a single silver of light emanating from the screen. What little illumination remained from outside was instantly snuffed out when the door was shut behind her. The muffled noises from outside had faded away entirely. Talia could no longer feel the gun at her back, and as long as the room stayed dark, she had a chance of catching them blind—

But her last bit of hope was sucked out of her once she was shoved sideways, her back hitting the wall hard. Someone grabbed her wrists and held them to the wall; Talia felt cold metal snap tightly around them so strongly she could feel the blood slowly draining out of her hands. Her lower body was still free, though, and just as she kicked out blindly, her legs were slammed against the wall too, and manacles closed around her ankles.

"What do you want?" she panted, completely blind to her surroundings. Hot, stinking breath fanned across her face, and she flinched, turning her head to the side so she wouldn't have to inhale it; she suddenly regretted speaking.

"Don't play games," the first guard snarled at her; she felt him grab her jaw tightly and twist it around to face him, his fingers digging into her skin painfully. "Where is the Tesseract?"

"The—the what?" Talia gasped. "What's a tesseract?"

"Playing dumb will get you nowhere." This was the voice of the second guard, now. "We know they told you what they did with it."

"Who?" Talia yelled, trying in vain to struggle free of her bonds. "You have the wrong person! I don't know!"

Something white-hot slashed across her face, as if a vat of boiling water had been thrown at her. Talia screamed, trying to twist away. "HELP!" she shrieked as loudly as she could.

"Shut up, you little bitch," the second guard snapped back. "All we need is the Tesseract's location."

"I said I don't know!" Talia panted. Her mind was spinning crazily, and just as she drew in another breath to muster up another scream, the first guard muttered two words:

"He's here."

Before her mind could even register the words, let alone make sense of them, something yanked hard at her bonds, snapping them in half, and Talia was freed.

Something hit the back of her knees, and her legs gave out from under her. Her kneecaps connected painfully with the hard ground, but she was far more concerned with the gun that was now pressed against the back of her neck. Her head was bowed, strands of hair falling over her face. Her cheeks were still burning, and she wasn't sure if it was sweat or tears that were stinging her face.

The man holding the gun barked something in a low, guttural voice—whatever he was saying, it certainly wasn't in English—and when there was no audible response, he laughed under his breath. "Gone soft already, have you?" he jeered to the unknown newcomer. Talia was too terrified for any part of her brain to care what he was talking about. "We're not going to kill her yet. She has…information that will be useful to us. But now that you're here too…"

Talia squeezed her eyes shut, although the loss of vision didn't make any difference. She was trembling madly, but, surprisingly, the guard didn't hold her still. She was waiting for her life to flash before her eyes, but she was firmly stuck in the present.

He barked something else in a string of foreign words, but this time Talia caught one coherent word:

_Hydra._

Hydra. The parasitic neo-Nazi organization that had grown inside S.H.I.E.L.D. They were at a Captain America exhibit.

Phoebe had said that she wanted to speak to Talia about the Triskelion's destruction and mentioned that it had something to do with their parents. Hydra agents had somehow known Talia's name and apparently they wanted to use her for something.

But _what?_ What did Hydra want her for? She had no ties to S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers—

Light blazed up around them, so sudden and bright that for one wild moment, Talia thought a bomb had gone off. At the same time, there were two deafening bangs in quick succession, and Talia's yell was lost in the noise.

_This is it, _she thought, certain she was dead, although it took her a good five seconds to realize that if she really _had _been shot, she wouldn't have had enough time to even think that.

Her heart was still beating furiously in her chest, so she must still be alive, right? Her knees still ached from their position on the cold concrete floor, so that had to be a good sign…

As soon as Talia opened her eyes, the world came rushing back again. She was staring at her trembling hands clasped in her lap. She could still feel the press of the gun against her skin—

And then she remembered the guards.

She whirled around so fast she felt dizzy, catching a brief flicker of blue velvet seats and red carpet, gold tassels and rows of chairs, before her eyes landed on a sprawled figure feet from her. The guard who had been holding the gun to her neck was on his back, staring unblinkingly up at the starry ceiling, his mouth slightly open. A stream of blood poured from some unseen wound under his head and congealed onto a puddle on the floor. Farther behind him, the motionless body of the other guard was collapsed in a heap by the door. It was clear that both men had not just spontaneously decided to take a nap.

Talia had only seen dead bodies once before—_no, focus, don't think about that, don't think about them, if those men are dead then someone shot them—so why did they spare me?_

She had to grip the back of the chair to pull herself upright, and even then she stumbled over her own feet like a newborn calf—she doubted the adrenaline would be leaving her body anytime soon. Who had the guards been talking to? Who had killed them? Clearly they hadn't been on the same side, but were they on _Talia's _side?

With the echo of the gun still ringing in her ears, Talia stared around the theater. It appeared completely deserted, empty except for her and two dead bodies. It struck her that this would be a very compromising situation were anyone to walk in at that moment, and she hoped the look of terror on her face would prove her innocence. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was not alone in the room. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. If it was the shooter, why hadn't they killed her too? She had been the easiest target there. Granted, Hydra had apparently wanted her alive…

Something silver glinted on the ground, inches from the second guard—his gun. Not caring about the possible consequences of getting her fingerprints on it, Talia lunged for it, but her fingers only swept empty air. Someone had stepped in front of her and taken it before she could, seemingly appearing right out of thin air.

Standing in front of her, with the gun in his right hand like it had always been in his grasp, stood a familiar man in a dark green jacket and a baseball cap. His gray eyes were very, very cold and very, very blank as he stared down at her.

_You_, Talia wanted to say, but she couldn't quite get the word out. Instead she stared dumbly back at him, her mouth slightly open and the slam of her heart against her ribcage reverberating through her entire body. Neither of them moved.

It was the man from the café.


	4. James

**Chapter Four: James**

.

.

.

Talia was going to throw up.

Or have a panic attack.

Or both.

She was too stunned to say anything, let alone try to flee. Her feet were rooted to the ground as she stared, open-mouthed, at the man who had just saved her life—for the time being, that was. She had no idea what he wanted from her, let alone why he had even decided to intervene in the first place.

A hidden loudspeaker crackled to life somewhere above them, and Talia flinched as a disembodied voice announced that the museum was being evacuated due to potential threats to civilians. She wondered why no one had thought to come in the auditorium.

"Who are you?" The question was tight, rigid, as if it was being forced out of the man's lips. He took a step towards her so Talia was staring right up into his face. He wasn't much taller than her, but now it felt as if there was feet between them. She tried to move away, but her back only hit the wall, knocking the breath out of her.

He had cornered her.

The gun was still at his side, but she was very aware of the fact that the safety was off. Her mouth was so dry that her voice croaked when she answered. "Talia Hawthorne."

The man's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "What did they want with you?" he demanded. They were now standing so close their chests were nearly touching. His teeth were bared in a half-snarl. Talia felt herself shaking.

She had always thought she would be calm and unwavering in the face of danger. She had always prided herself on keeping cool in crisis situations when everyone else was panicking. But now…now she could feel nothing but fear. Fear and adrenaline.

"I don't know," she said. Her teeth were shaking so madly it was an effort to keep them separated long enough to form words. "I don't know anything about—about Hydra or S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Tesseract! I don't know what they want with me. They have the wrong person. Please—please don't kill me," she finally choked, throwing away what little remained of her dignity.

_They know about Phoebe. _

Could they have been after Phoebe but got Talia instead? But that didn't make sense…her sister had nothing to do with that world. She was just a single mother living in Indiana.

Wasn't she?

The movement of the man snapped Talia back to reality. He was staring intently at her with a cold, sharp gaze that made her feel as if he was silently interrogating her. What if he thought she was lying? She saw the gun twitch in his hand.

"_Please," _she gasped again. "I don't know anything. I _swear_."

He stared at her for another moment that seemed to last forever, and then he finally turned away. It took Talia a long second before her muscles relaxed and she was able to slump against the wall in relief. She fell to her knees, her heart pounding so hard that a haze of red was clouding her vision with each beat. She was suddenly aware of how weak her limbs felt, as if they would no longer support her weight.

The man stopped and stared back at her, as if he didn't know why she was on the floor.

"I can't," Talia said faintly. She was very aware of how vulnerable and pathetic she must look. "I can't stand…"

He said something, very quietly, but Talia could tell it wasn't in English, and it was the same guttural language the two agents had been speaking to each other in. Her blood froze. "You're Hydra," she accused. "Aren't you?"

His eyes darkened, and immediately she knew she had said the wrong thing. _"No," _he snarled, but it came half a beat too late.

_Then how do you know about them? _Talia thought. The words bubbled up halfway before they stuck in her throat, threatening to choke her. She tried to push herself to her feet, but her hands shook when she put weight on them.

A pair of heavy black boots suddenly appeared in her field of vision, and Talia didn't even have enough time to roll away before the man hauled her to her feet and steadied her until she was able to stand on her own. She met his eyes again—they were still calculating, guarded, but they were no longer full of the burning rage she had seen before.

"T—thank you," she stammered, and took a cautious step toward the door, wary at the thought of turning her back on him. Although he had admittedly saved her life, he still had a gun on him, and she was completely defenseless.

But he was suddenly there, in front of her and blocking her path. Talia blinked slowly at him, still too shocked to fully comprehend what was going on. "I think I'd better go," she said, staring at his throat instead of into his eyes. His jaw was covered with a thick line of stubble; he clearly hadn't seen a razor in ages.

"There are more of them," he answered, his voice completely flat. Startled, Talia's eyes flickered upward and unwittingly met his own again. His mouth set in a hard line as he stared back at her.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked doubtfully, her heart leaping like a skittish colt again. She almost wished she would faint. "Follow you?"

He nodded once, head tight, and turned away from her. One of his hands still rested inside the pocket of his sweater, where Talia was sure his gun was stored. She gaped at him for a long moment before words found her again.

"I don't even know who you are!" she called after him. "I don't even know your _name!"_

At first she wondered if he had even heard her; there was a loud grinding, creaking sound from the auditorium doors, as if some sort of metal had given way—had they actually been _bolted _shut?—and light from the main exhibit flooded into the dark shadow Talia had tried to hide herself in. He watched her flail for another argument, his face impassive and his elbow leaning on the metal bar of the door.

Since Talia knew she couldn't stay in the auditorium forever, she had two choices. There was no telling how long the police would take to arrive, so her first option was to try to get away from the strange man. That was the one she most favored, but then again…if he was right, and there were more Hydra agents after her, she was as good as dead. If she followed him, she was putting her life in the hands of a man she didn't know, even if he had saved her.

Besides, she would feel a lot better if she somehow managed to steal his gun.

Talia swallowed, her mouth feeling like sandpaper, and shakily made her way to the doors. She hoped he didn't notice that her hands were shaking madly. She kept her eyes on the ground, ready to flinch away if he tried to grab her.

"James," he said as she passed him; Talia was momentarily so surprised he hadn't tried to attack her that she didn't immediately understand him.

"What?" she asked, shielding her eyes from the now-overly bright fluorescent lighting. The room, as far as she could tell, was completely deserted, not a single soul in sight. She wasn't sure if that was a comforting thing or not.

He stepped out of the auditorium, letting the doors close behind him, and she noticed his eyes once more flicker over to the Bucky Barnes exhibit. "My name…is James," he repeated, but he sounded hesitant, almost unsure.

Talia wasn't entirely certain he was telling the truth, but if he was lying, he was making absolutely no effort to sound sincere. He swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he was steeling himself to do something extraordinarily difficult, and Talia realized it was the single most human thing she had seen him do. That small, insignificant gesture almost gave her hope.

Almost.

"Well, James," Talia asked, "What are we going to do?"

He finally tore his eyes away from the black-and-white picture of Barnes wielding a machine gun, looking intent and staring blankly at them. He was suddenly all attention, all traces of vulnerability gone. "Leave," he replied.

Talia was getting the impression that he wasn't a very talkative sort. "Okay," she said slowly, "But where are we going, exactly?"

This time, he didn't even bother answering her: he turned and strode toward the emergency exit. Although his back was to her, Talia got the impression that he was, somehow, still watching her. She quickly glanced around the exhibit before she followed him, making sure they were completely alone, although she was sure the man—_James—_would have noticed them long before she did.

And then her eyes landed on the security camera installed on the ceiling, its unblinking eye staring directly at her.

Talia didn't often have sudden, brilliant ideas, but when she _did, _they usually worked.

If someone were ever to review the afternoon's security footage—and she was sure they would—they'd have everything on tape: the Hydra guards holding a gun to Talia, and leading her into the auditorium, the museum's evacuation, and James leading her back outside, shaken but alive and (mostly) unharmed. If she was still missing (_not dead_; she flat-out refused to consider that option) by then, they would have no way of uncovering her identity, unless...

Glancing out of the corner of her eye at James, who didn't appear to be looking at her, Talia reached into her pocket and closed her fingers around the hard edges of her driver's license. She pulled it out, flashing it briefly towards the security camera, shielding her body so that James wouldn't be able to see what she was doing before slipping it back inside her pocket. The moment had lasted barely ten seconds, but her heart was still pounding as she turned on her heel and walked quickly towards the emergency exit, secretly crossing her fingers and praying that someone would be able to find her.

* * *

><p>When they emerged outside, Talia half-expected there to be a dozen police cars surrounding the museum and a dozen guns aimed at her head. But there was nothing save for a tour bus parked on the road and a handful of cars in the parking lot—the museum must have been evacuated quickly. She hoped that Phoebe and Reagan had taken a cab straight back to the house.<p>

James was already feet ahead of her, hood pulled up over his head and his hands stuffed in his pockets. Talia swallowed hard as she fumbled in her pocket for the car keys. She wished she hadn't left her phone at home.

But the second she unlocked the car, James had already opened the driver's door. Talia stared at him in shock for a moment before wrenching open the passenger door and stuck her head inside. "What the hell are you doing? This is my car," she said, too panicked to be polite.

He didn't even look at her. "Get in."

"But—"

"_Get in," _he nearly snarled. His jaw was clenched as he stared at something in the rearview mirror.

Talia had no idea what the wisest reaction would be in this situation. Her head was spinning too crazily for her to even form something resembling logic.

_He has a gun._

_He saved my life._

_He killed those men._

_He could kill me, too._

_He's my only hope._

But she never had a chance to decide for herself, as James's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, roughly pulling her into the car just as a barrage of shots rang out from behind her. Men were pouring out from the bus across the street—Talia could clearly see that they were all heavily armed.

She slammed the door behind her as the car growled to life and shot forward, tires squealing loudly on the pavement as they sped away. Talia had to admit that he was driving much better than she would have been, considering the situation.

"How many are there?" she asked, rubbing her arm. It was still throbbing painfully from where he had grabbed her, and the tender skin was a telltale sign that bruises were already forming. It was strange—he had barely touched her for half a second and his grip had been unbelievably strong.

James, predictably, didn't answer her, but then again, Talia didn't need him to.

* * *

><p>In the end, it was Sam who received the call first.<p>

They were in the car, speeding along the freeway back across the bridge to D.C. Despite being discharged from the hospital a scarce two hours beforehand—healing in twenty-four hours the extent of injuries that would take a normal human weeks, if not months, to recover from—Steve had insisted on driving. Glancing over at his friend, Sam couldn't help but wonder if it gave him a sense of control that he currently did not possess.

"Stark wants me back in New York," he said, breaking the silence. It was the first time he had spoken since they'd left the cemetery.

Sam's phone was vibrating in his pocket, but he decided whoever was on the other end of the line could wait just a moment longer. "Are you going?" he asked.

Steve sighed, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. An array of at least five police cars sped by them, lights flashing and sirens blaring. "I don't know. But it's unlikely that he would want to stay here."

Both of them knew who _he _was. In the ensuing silence, Sam pulled out his phone, seeing that he had several missed calls from Mike, a friend from the VA. He quickly texted, _Driving. Will call you later. –S_

"I was thinking—he might want to go back there," Steve was saying. "To Brooklyn. And Stark could help…"

"Why does he need you so urgently?" Sam asked. "Official Avengers business?" He flashed a grin. "A date for the next charity ball?"

Steve's expression remained solemn. His eyes were fixed on the police cars ahead of them. "He'll want to know what happened to S.H.I.E.L.D. I don't have the patience to deal with him right now. I'm sure Fury will track him down and explain."

Sam's phone vibrated again. He chanced a glance down at it: _Have u heard? Gunfire at Captain America exhibit. The whole museum has been evacuated. _

"Yo, Cap," he said urgently. "Look at this." He held the phone up to Steve, who briefly took his eyes off the road to read Mike's text. The car didn't waver an inch.

Sam could see the change in Steve's expression immediately. His eyes darkened, and he swung over into the exit lane behind the police cars, earning himself several annoyed honks. The old car groaned in protest as he pushed the speedometer past ninety.

"Do you think it's him?" Sam asked.

"It has to be," replied Steve, his tone clipped. His entire body was taut with tension; Sam had never seen him this agitated before. "Ask him if there have been any civilian casualties."

Sam obediently did as he asked. Luckily, Mike responded almost immediately:

_I don't think so._

Steve's entire body relaxed. "I knew it," he said softly.

Sam wanted to warn him not to get his hopes up, but he could see it was already too late. If Steve's hopes were any higher, they would be in outer space.

As they neared the Smithsonian, they were met by a barricade of police cars directing traffic back the other way. As Steve slowed down, Sam could see what looked like an overturned bus flipped over and blocking the road.

"Maybe we should come at it from another way," he suggested, but Steve was already shaking his head.

"There's no time," he said. "We'll have to get out here." He pulled over to a spot on the shoulder and immediately got out, striding across the grass to the parking lot. Sam scrambled to follow him, pushing down the lock on his door before he climbed out. With the way Steve had been driving, it was bound to croak sooner than later.

The first group of police officers guarding the doors moved to stop them, but as soon as they caught a glimpse of Captain America they grudgingly stepped aside. Sam doubted they would deny him entrance to his own (destroyed) exhibit.

However, by the time they got to the front doors looks alone were not enough to get them by. "Captain Rogers, I appreciate your concern, but this is a crime scene," a burly officer said, crossing his arms and blocking their path.

"I understand, sir," Steve said politely, switching on the charm and looking as American as apple pie. "But this is important. We promise not to disturb anything."

Sam could tell that the officer wouldn't budge, not even for Captain America. So he stepped forward and declared, "Officer, we have reason to believe that the Winter Soldier was involved with these events."

Steve shot him a warning look, but it was too late: the officer was blinking at them in disbelief. "The Winter Soldier?" he repeated. "Why on earth would he be at the Smithsonian?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Steve said before Sam could reveal anything else. "At least let us review the security footage. Please."

The officer glanced back at his coworkers, evidently searching for support, but none of them seemed particularly concerned about letting a national hero inside—especially one who had likely saved them all—and finally relented. "Ten minutes, tops," he warned. "Or I _will _have to forcibly remove both of you from the premises, understand?"

Sam doubted Steve even heard him, since he had already disappeared inside, so he was left to smile and nod politely at the officer before jogging after his friend.

The lobby was filled with even more officers and various law enforcers, clustered in groups and barking at their squawking walkie-talkies. The building looked relatively intact, at least. Steve pulled Sam to a quiet corner where they wouldn't be noticed. He didn't look pleased.

"Why did you tell him?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Man, in case you didn't know, Hydra secrets leaked out yesterday. If they haven't announced it yet, they will soon."

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but he caught a glimpse of something behind Sam and closed it again. He strode across the lobby where two bodies on gurneys were being wheeled out from the elevators by paramedics with masks over their mouths.

"Two clean shots—one in the heart, the other in the back of the head. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing," one of them was saying to the other. "This was no accident."

Another paramedic hurried over and began to peel back the coverings before he was stopped by the others, who told him in no uncertain terms that they were dead and beyond any medical intervention. Sam saw a split-second glimpse of two unfamiliar men before Steve quickly strode away.

"I saw them with Pierce one time," Steve muttered as they headed across the lobby. "They're Hydra."

"_Were _Hydra," Sam corrected. He let out a low whistle. "So Barnes is getting around. You think he followed them here?"

Steve shook his head. "I think—no, I _know_—that Bucky came here to learn about his past. There's no other option, Sam. And they must have been monitoring the area."

"Maybe he just wanted a day off," Sam suggested. Steve glared at him.

"Hilarious. Now, let's go see the security footage. It's bound to show us something."

Luckily, there was no one in the control room, and Sam was easily able to rewind the tapes back an hour. The camera scanned the Captain America exhibit, and Steve zoomed in on a green-jacketed figure standing very still in front of the Bucky Barnes mural. "That's him, Sam," he murmured.

"At least he's making an effort to blend in," Sam remarked, crossing his arms. Then, for no apparent reason, Bucky suddenly turned around and slipped out of the frame, effortlessly melting away.

"Cap, look," he said, and pointed at the two dead guards. One was standing at the north end of the exhibit, by the emergency exit, while the second was standing in front of the auditorium doors. "Do you think he noticed them?"

"Probably," Steve nodded, and both men waited for the inevitable gunshots. But Bucky didn't reappear back in the frame, and the crowds surged through the exhibit like normal. And then, the first guard, the one standing by the exit, strode into the crowd. He stopped behind a dark-haired woman standing apart from the rest and said something to her. She went very still, and Steve zoomed in even more to see that he was holding a gun to her back.

Sam swore. "Who is she?" he asked Steve, who shrugged. "What the hell is he doing?" Here was an event neither of them had anticipated.

The woman stumbled forward and spoke to another woman holding a young child by the hand, and then walked into the auditorium. Both guards disappeared behind her and the doors closed.

Steve and Sam exchanged a leveled glance and waited as several minutes passed by, but nothing happened. And then, finally, in some response to a noise, the crowd as one immediately surged for the doors and the exhibit was deserted. Steve was leaning so close to the television that his nose was almost touching it.

The auditorium doors opened and now the woman stepped out with Bucky right behind her. He looked as if he was pushing her toward the emergency exit. She looked up to the camera, once, opening and closing her hand very quickly. Then she and Bucky disappeared through the emergency exit just as police officers swarmed the room.

Steve didn't speak for a long time, until Sam voiced the only thought in his head. "She might be a hostage," he warned.

"Looks like he saved her," Steve muttered, as usual refusing to listen to Sam's more pessimistic view. "What does Hydra want with her? She can't be on their side if they tried to kill her."

"Hang on," Sam said. He leaned forward and rewound the tape, pausing it when the woman looked up at the camera and opened her hand. There was a small card in it, and as he zoomed in he saw it was a driver's license. Her hand was partially obscuring her name, but even with the grainy picture Sam could see her address: he recognized it as being in a suburb just outside of D.C. She was clearly hoping someone would see the footage and find her.

Steve's phone was already to his ear, a terse expression on his face as it rang only once. "Natasha," he said by way of greeting. Sam pretended to be absorbed in the security footage. If he strained his ears, he could just hear her reply.

"Steve," she purred. "It's barely been an hour. I didn't know you missed me that much."

As usual, Steve jumped straight to the point: "Are you near a computer? I need you to look up an address for me."

"A woman's address? Don't tell me you're planning to surprise Sharon," she said. A muscle in Steve's jaw twitched.

"Two Hydra agents were killed in the Smithsonian this afternoon," he said. "Bucky escaped with an unidentified woman who could possibly be a hostage. All we have is her address."

"Maybe she has a thing for assassins. You never know," she replied, giving a throaty chuckle. "You'd be surprised how many people do."

"Nat," Steve said wearily. He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking exhausted. Sam wondered if he should have made him stay at the hospital longer.

"Fine, fine," Natasha pouted. "Hang on." The phone crackled as she shifted it to her other ear, and there was a short silence, broken only by the sound of fingers tapping on keys. Steve was perfectly still, only speaking to give her the address. His lips barely moved as he spoke.

"It belongs to a Talia Hawthorne," she finally said. Steve gave a small, almost imperceptible jerk, as if he recognized the name, though Sam had no idea why he would. "Twenty-seven, five feet six inches, black hair, blue eyes, has a degree in photojournalism, works at a café…I dunno, Rogers, she looks pretty normal to me."

"Is there anything else?" Steve pressed.

Natasha didn't reply immediately, although there was an imperceptible exhale. "Her parents were Alistair and Marian Hawthorne," she finally answered.

Steve's eyes briefly flickered closed and then opened again. "That's all I need to know," he replied. "Thank you, Natasha." Without waiting for a reply, he flipped the phone shut and turned to face Sam.

"What is it, man?" he asked. "Who is she?"

"It's not her," Steve said grimly. "It's who her parents were."


End file.
